


Many Roads to the Same Place

by i_know_its_0ver



Category: The Eagle | Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: 19th Century, AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-23
Updated: 2012-02-23
Packaged: 2017-10-31 15:04:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/345486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_know_its_0ver/pseuds/i_know_its_0ver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>written for <a href="http://the-eagle-kink.livejournal.com/5005.html?thread=4351629#t4351629">this prompt</a> on the kink meme. Esca is a pickpocketing gypsy, Cottia is a fortune teller, Marcus is…well, still a wounded soldier, and everyone’s just looking for something to call home. (Or, the one where Esca stole Marcus’s wallet, and then his heart.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Many Roads to the Same Place

**Author's Note:**

> there are a few Romani words sprinkled in there. I took them from [this glossary](http://westwood.fortunecity.com/armani/208/romani.html). Definitions are at the end

The column was under attack.

Bullets whizzed past from out of the low brush, the shooters hiding behind the small copse of trees, the only cover for miles around in this desert wasteland. Marcus should have expected an ambush, should have been prepared. Instead they were sitting ducks as the bullets flew at them.

Marcus yelled to his men to take cover behind the supply wagons, but it was like his voice had dried up in the arid heat, like every drop of water in this godforsaken desert. He watched his men fall one by one, trying to return fire at an enemy they couldn’t see. But they were too slow. They would all be picked off, like animals in a tight cage, unable to either flee or fight.

Others might call it bravery, what Marcus did next, but in that moment all Marcus had felt was desperation. His men were dying. He was failing. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

He turned his rearing horse toward the gunfire, clinging tightly to its mane when it tried to buck him off and flee. Probably a much more intelligent plan, but this wasn’t the time for self-preservation. With both sword and pistol drawn, Marcus dug his heels into the horse’s flanks, forcing it to dash skittishly right into the midst of the enemy position.

It was probably pure surprise that caused the enemy to cease fire for the one crucial moment Marcus needed. There were only a few of them, nothing more than a motley band of ragged farmers with hunting rifles. It was only their location which had given them the tactical advantage over the Queen’s finest troops. These farmers were learning, adapting quickly. Marcus should have known better.

Marcus knocked the gun from the hands of one man and delivered a non-fatal blow to the shoulder of another. Anger burned through his veins, but he had seen enough bloodshed already in this war, and he was loathe to waste another life when he it wasn’t absolutely necessary.

It was probably that soft-heartedness that almost cost him his life. Apparently he had missed one last guerrilla; he heard the rustling just quick enough to spin out of the way as the bullet hit his horse’s flank instead. Marcus felt the animal shudder in pain as a hideous cry of fear and anguish rent the air. Before Marcus could react the pitiful creature had collapsed onto its side, its massive weight trapping Marcus beneath him.

Marcus heard screaming, from his horse, his men, maybe himself; the whole world sounded like it was crying out in pain. He felt the bones in his thigh shatter like the delicate porcelain vases his mother had always warned him not to touch. It took a moment for the pain to reach him, as if it were traveling over a great distance. But then it hit him like a crashing wave, white hot lightening coursing through his body, setting him on fire--

Marcus startled awake with a half-strangled cry, panting and squeezing his eyes shut tight against the memory of a pain that had long since faded to a constant dull ache. He waited a moment for his body to relax, till he could unclench his teeth and flex his fingers out of the tight fists gripping his thighs. The dream still seemed so real, even with his eyes open, the sight of the familiar book-lined library overlapping with memories of sand and blood. He couldn’t resist rubbing at his leg, expecting to find the flesh twisted and bloodied beneath his fingers, the excruciating months of healing all a cruel hallucination. Instead all he felt was the ripple of healing scars beneath the soft twill of his trousers, and the thick leather straps of the supportive brace the surgeon had insisted he wear. That solid material beneath his fingers helped to ground Marcus in the present as his thumping heart slowed and the waking world came back into focus.

He hadn’t had that dream in almost four entire days. A new record.

“Marcus,” a soft voice called, accompanied by a knock on the heavy oak door. Marcus shifted to sit up straighter in the plush leather chair where he had dozed off. The library was at the back of the house, hidden away from visitors and the noises of the streets. Marcus had taken to spending his afternoons there, feeling at ease amongst all the other dusty volumes and relics, no longer relevant or necessary, kept tucked away for posterity. It was his favorite room in the house.

As he shifted, an open book slid off his lap and landed on the carpet with a muted thud. Marcus reached down to retrieve it just as his uncle’s head appeared around the door.

“Fascinating reading?” Aquila asked with a knowing smirk. It made Marcus feel like a schoolboy who had been caught daydreaming during his lessons. He cleared his throat gruffly and willed his cheeks not to flush.

“Just brushing up on, uh--” Marcus had to glance down at the book, which had barely held his interest even before exhaustion took him. Stories of great wars no longer held the fascination they once had “--Roman history.”

Uncle Aquila smiled fondly, moving over to take the book from Marcus. The green leather spine was cracked in several place, and Aquila ran his hands over them reverently, with the type of tender affection reserved for an old friend. “Ah yes, the glory of Rome. I wonder what they would think of our own little Empire?” he asked, and Marcus couldn’t be sure whether his uncle spoke to him or to the book. It hardly mattered; Empire and glory were two of the last things Marcus wished to think about after his dream.

“Did you need something?” Marcus asked, trying not to sound impatient. His uncle was kind enough to let Marcus, a nephew he had not seen in many years, stay with him in his London townhouse without question. Marcus usually enjoyed his company, the way his wry humor pulled Marcus from his own black moods, but the dream had left him feeling raw and exposed. At these moments he felt all wrong in his own skin, as if it were an ill-tailored suit. He would rather have some time alone to compose himself, and maybe a stiff drink to help him forget.

“Actually, I was just thinking what a lovely day it is outside,” Aquila said, looking up from where his hands were still thumbing through the yellowed pages of the book.

Marcus followed his gaze out the tall study windows, but all he saw was an endless expanse of grey clouds, just like every other London day. It was nothing like the hot blazing sun of southern Africa that he could almost still feel scorching his skin. Marcus had never thought he’d be so happy to see a gloomy English fog again.

Marcus kept quiet and waited for his uncle to come to the point. There was no use in trying to rush Aquila, he was one to do things in his own way, in his own time. It had always frustrated Marcus, who thrived on precision and order. A born soldier, his father had always said.

“It would be a nice day to get out, get some fresh air,” Aquila continued, with a studied air of casual indifference. “Maybe take in some entertainment. We could both use some diversion, I believe.”

And there it was, that quiet concern that Aquila never addressed directly. He never asked Marcus if he were alright, never pushed him to talk about the war. He had been a soldier himself, once, in another lifetime. He looked at Marcus sometimes with a keenness of understanding that was almost worse than the curiosity of strangers. But he never said anything, Instead simply plying Marcus with plenty of good food and easy chatter, subtly making sure his nephew had everything he could need without having to ask. Marcus was more grateful than he could ever express.

Marcus didn’t particularly feel like going out, especially when long walks were still somewhat of an awkward proposition and would probably leave him stiff for the entire next day. However, he also wouldn’t be so selfish as to deny his uncle such a small pleasure.

“Did you have something in mind?” Marcus asked, already knowing his uncle did. His mouth had that wry twist that meant he was plotting something.

“There’s a fair, of sorts, out by Spitalfields. It’s quite the talk of the town, or so I hear from Claudius. I thought we might go see what all the excitement is about. Besides, I promised Stephanos an afternoon off, since you’ve been running him ragged lately. Poor man’s not as young as he once was.”

Aquila said this last with a chuckle, and Marcus knew it was an old joke between them. Aquila’s butler, Mr. Stephanos, had been with him for as long as Marcus could remember. They had grown into old men together, set in their ways, until Marcus had stumbled into their life and set the prim servant’s well-ordered world askew. He would feel guilty, if Stephanos hadn’t been the one to force so many awful tonics and medicines down his throat during his convalescence.

“A fair?” Marcus asked skeptically, though he was already resigned to going. A fair would be noisy and dirty and full of too many jostling bodies jeopardizing his precarious balance. Why had his uncle always loved such folksy attractions?

Aquila simply nodded and grinned, as if he could sense Marcus’s imminent capitulation. “It will be fun, you’ll see,” he assured, whistling a jaunty marching tune as he strolled out of the room. His shouts for Stephanos echoed down the hallway and Marcus sat back with a sigh.

“Fun,” he murmured to himself. He briefly closed his eyes, rubbing a calused palm over his face as if it would preemptively relieve some of the day’s coming tension. But behind his eyelids he could still see the sharp rays of sun and the baking clay of the earth, so he snapped them back open. Maybe some diversion was exactly what he needed.

\----

The “fair,” as Uncle Aquila had called it, was nothing more than a sprawling gypsy camp in an cramped grove at the outskirts of the city.

Old wooden wagons, covered and converted into mobile homes, were interspersed with makeshift tents stitched together from a dizzying assortment of the most boldly patterned cloths Marcus had ever laid eyes on. The air smelled like a curious assortment of spices and incense, reminding Marcus of some of the stops he had made in small, uncharted places as the army journeyed through Africa. Tents, stalls, pens, and clearings littered the wide open space with no distinguishable order whatsoever. The noise was nearly deafening as children and chickens darted about together underfoot in a cacophony of squawks and shouts and laughter. More than once the sudden appearance of a stoic goose had caused Marcus to nearly loose his footing as he stumbled out of the way. He was glad Aquila had insisted he bring his cane, even though it made him feel like an old man.

The camp was also crammed full of tourists. It seemed all of London had come out to see the curiosity, from its lowliest to its most refined, all gawking at the displays of heathenish exoticism.

Marcus didn’t see what all the fuss was about. His mother’s family had been French, in a long distant time that the English side of the family conveniently chose to forget. She had told him stories that he could only half remember, passed down from her grandmother and her grandmother’s mother; stories of gypsies and their abilities to curse or bless, of their conniving wiles and wild, barbaric ways. The reality was much more mundane.

All Marcus saw here were a poor people, dressed in colorful rags and artfully painted faces, duping tourists with their mystical tales and exotic accents. An old woman with graying dark hair tucked away beneath a crimson scarf had tried to entice them into her tent to have their fortunes revealed, but Marcus had steadfastly refused. He had objected less to a show with hand-carved wooden puppets suspended on strings in front of curtain, painted to look like a mountain landscape.

Aquila had then dragged him over to a large clearing where a crowd had begun to gather. Music began to play, softly and slowly at first, a strange mix of stringed instruments that Marcus couldn’t identify. The song started out mournful and hauntingly sad before increasing to a frenzied jig. Several women with flowing skirts and wild, braided hair twirled about like children’s tops, creating a living, moving swirl of color. Marcus was still a little dizzy afterwards as they stopped at a small wagon to purchase heavily spiced meats, while Aquila examined the beguiling array of bobbles for sale.

After an hour or two of this dawdling Marcus’s leg was beginning to ache and he was more than ready to head back to the quiet comfort of his favorite chair and a glass of brandy. He turned to catch his uncle’s attention and pull him away from yet another merchant trying to overcharge him for trinkets, when he felt a body bump into his shoulder.

It certainly wasn’t the first passerby to jostle Marcus that day, the way the crowds were packed in like chickens in a coop. But Marcus’s long training as a soldier instantly alerted him that this hadn’t been an accidental bump. This had been purposeful, calculated. Marcus immediately felt for his wallet fold, tucked in the inside breast pocket of his jacket.

It was gone.

Marcus turned, searching the crowds for the thief, his eyes blazing in anger. He wasn’t worried so much for the wallet; there was barely anything in it, and the thief would undoubtedly be disappointed that he had chosen such a poor target. But to be duped this way, taken for a target of little risk, stung his still healing pride.

The crowds were thick, but Marcus spotted one figure moving through them with the precision and grace of a blade. Marcus made his way towards it, pushing people aside as politely as he could in his hurry, but his movement were stilted, awkward. He was quickly losing ground.

The figure he followed was short, barely visible above the heads of the crowd, but Marcus’s eyes were locked on him. His clothes were the baggy, mismatched garb of the gypsy folk, but a cap was pulled down over his head, obscuring any distinguishing features. Marcus could make out nothing until he turned back, just for a moment, and seemed to look directly at Marcus. Marcus could see the shadowed outline of a strong jaw and sharp cheek bones, the details still hidden from view, but the sight arrested him for a reason he couldn’t name. He halted in place as people jostled around him, his breath frozen in his lungs. The young thief actually had the gall to _smirk_ at Marcus and touch the brim of his hat in salute, before turning back into the crowd and disappearing.

For one desperate moment Marcus thought to go after him, to find him, for what purpose he couldn’t say. Something about that smirk had lit a fire in him, a sensation of excitement and purpose and thrilling uncertainty he hadn’t felt in many years.

He stood helpless as the sea of faces ebbed around him, until suddenly Aquila was at his side, taking his elbow and guiding Marcus out of the stream of traffic.

“Find something to interest you at last?” his uncle asked, and Marcus felt like his words indicated far more than just the amusements of the fair ground. The man’s senses bordered disturbingly close to the supernatural.

“No, nothing,” Marcus replied gruffly, turning away from his uncle’s too-perceptive gaze. “I think it’s time to head home.”

“I quite agree, I could do with a real meal myself. Besides, Stephanos will start to fret if we’re gone too long. Probably call the constable to report us kidnapped by gypsies.”

Marcus let his uncle’s stream of banter wash over him as they flagged down a hansom cab and headed back towards home, away from exotic faces and beguiling strangers and feelings Marcus couldn’t name.

Marcus tried to forget all about it. He spent the evening listening to his uncle’s chatter, through dinner and drinks and several rounds of cards, and tried not to let his mind wander.

Still, when he closed his eyes that night he saw a face, half hidden in shadow, smirking enticingly. Anything seemed an improvement over dreams of war and pain, but it left him with an altogether different kind of ache.

\---

Several days later Marcus had almost managed to forget. He was out for a walk in the mild afternoon sun, mind on his destination: the dusty old specialty bookshop where several volumes Aquila ordered had just come in. Apparently he had taken Marcus’s casual interest in Roman history for much more than it was. They had never shared much in common before, besides memories they couldn’t speak of and a knowledge of field maneuvers, so Marcus didn’t have the heart to correct him.

It had been a long time since Marcus had leisurely strolled the streets of London by himself, with little to distract him from the sights and sounds. He had grown up in the countryside, only visiting his uncle in Town on rare occasion. In the few months since he had become a semi-permanent resident here, he had rarely had the motivation or energy for exploration. The city was still much as he remembered it from his boyhood, though: noisy and gloomy comfortingly well-ordered with its neat rows of brick townhouses and well-ordered lanes and parks.

He was considering a short detour through Hyde Park when a sudden shout startled him from his placid thoughts. When Marcus turned in the direction of the disturbance he was struck still in utter shock.

He caught sight of a figure, much more familiar than it should be from having seen it only a moment in life, but many times over in his dreams. The gypsy boy from the fair, the one who had so brazenly stolen his wallet from right out of his pocket. He was here, on the same sidewalk, in the middle of downtown London. Marcus wondered for a moment if he weren’t dreaming in the library again after all.

There was another shout, shaking Marcus from his frozen shock. A man had the young thief by the arm, wrenching it behind his back and hurling scathing obscenities to the general populace, it seemed. The thief winced in his grip, but held back from crying out, probably not wanting to attract any more attention from the passing crowds lest someone think to fetch a watchman.

Marcus’s feet carried him forward before he could question why, or what he intended to do. There was already a small crowd of gawkers gathering, creating a thin barrier between Marcus and the scene before him.

“Think you could rob me, eh? Think I’m a sucker?” The man was shouting, brandishing his wallet in front of the thief’s face, as if he were a puppy being made to look at the evidence of his misbehavior. The thief’s face was shadowed still by the same shabby cloth cap, but the set of his shoulders conveyed defiance rather than penitence. He wriggled experimentally, testing the man’s grip on his arm. Marcus felt a pang of admiration that was entirely unsuited to the situation. The thief probably would have made a fine soldier, in another life.

His resistance seemed to only inflame the man further. “You’re not getting away from me, I should haul your worthless arse down to the constable, let you rot in the goal where your kind belong,” he jeered, twisting the arm in his grasp back further towards the breaking point.

Something inside of Marcus finally snapped in to action.

“There you are!” he shouted, trying his best to sound exasperated instead of panicked as he pushed through the ring of onlookers to stand before the two men. He tried to call forth the intimidating aura of a military officer which he had not possessed in many months. He was glad he’d left the cane at home today.

“Who are you, what do you want?” the man asked suspiciously, as if he suspected Marcus were there to steal his prize away from him and deny him the joy of torment. The malicious glee in his eyes made Marcus want to cringe. He had met that kind of man before, cloaked behind a uniform and words like Empire. The memories made his stomach turn.

“I’m so sorry, has my cousin been causing you trouble?” he asked, trying to think of a way to diffuse the situation without arousing suspicion. Words had never been his strong suit, but on this battlefield they were his only weapon. As badly as he may want to club this arrogant fool over the head, it wouldn’t do the thief any favors to attract even more attention. “He’s new to town, and I’ve promised to keep my eye on him, but he keeps getting into trouble, the scamp,” Marcus said, shaking his head in an approximation of fond exasperation, as if pickpocketing were nothing but the amusing antics of a misbehaving child.

The thief assessed Marcus from beneath his cap with sharp, suspicious eyes, as if trying to work out his motives. If he recognized Marcus from the fair, he gave no indication. Marcus felt both relief and an unaccountable pang of disappointment.

“You know him?” the man asked, deflating somewhat. Apparently he only picked on the weak and friendless. But then he rallied, brandishing his wallet. “He tried to steal this from me!”

“I’m sure it was just an accident,” Marcus placated, moving closer and subtly trying to ease the man’s hands off of the unfortunate pickpocket with a chummy pat to the shoulder. “He’s so clumsy, always bumping in to people, sometimes things just…fall out.”

Marcus was just babbling now, letting his mouth run to distract the man. It was working, because his hands had fallen away, letting Marcus get his own around the thief’s shoulders to steer him out of reach. The man seemed to realize he was being cheated out of his righteous anger and made another attempt at protest, but Marcus simply kept talking.

“You have your wallet, so no harm was actually done, yes? We’ll be going, then, and I’ll keep a closer eye on him in future.” They were already walking away before the man could say anything else. The small crowd had already lost interest and dispersed once they realized there would be no violence, and the man was left with no one to complain to, sputtering to himself on the cobblestone walkway as life continued on around him.

Marcus walked as swiftly as he could with his weight so awkwardly distributed, not releasing his hold on the stranger until they had turned a corner. The thief jerked from his grasp, rounding on Marcus with an angry, suspicious glare. It caught Marcus off guard. He hadn’t expected _gratitude_ , exactly, but he didn’t expect such blatant hostility, either.

“What do you want?” the thief asked, and Marcus was struck dumb for a moment by his voice. His accent was smooth and lilting, nothing like the rough working class twang he had expected. There was something almost foreign, exotic about the way his voice shaped around the words. Marcus was so startled by their sound that it took a moment for their import to sink in.

“Want? Nothing. I was just trying to help you.” Marcus held his palms up in a placating gesture, as if soothing a spooked horse.

“Well I didn’t need it. I can take care of myself,” the thief replied with a fierceness that made Marcus think he was probably right. Still, it didn’t change the fact that Marcus had just gone out of his way, put _himself_ at some risk, to save the man from a brush with the law that a habitual criminal like him probably couldn’t afford.

“Or did you expect some kind of reward?” the thief continued, his tone turning mocking. “Want me to be indebted to you? Give you special _favors_?” Something about the way he said it made Marcus shiver with a mixture of excitement and shame. He shook himself, his indignant anger outweighing all else.

“Look, I didn’t have to help you, but I did. I could have let you rot in jail or get a beating or worse. By all rights I _should_ have. It would have been fair justice, as I’ve witnessed your skills twice now.”

Marcus watched the thief’s expression shift as recognition seemed to dawn on him. “The fair,” he said, and Marcus was stunned that he remembered, a crazy happiness bubbling in his chest, pushing away the anger.

But just as quickly, the thief’s expression turned back to suspicion. “Is that what this is about, then?” he asked, the shadowed corners of his lips sneering. “You saved me from him so you could get to deliver a bit of ‘justice’ yourself.” It was barely a question, as if the answer were obvious. His body stiffened, bracing for whatever blows he imagined were coming. Marcus flinched away, appalled.

Marcus was hurt that this complete stranger would think him some sort of brute. He wanted to explain, to defend himself, but, as usual, his pride took over. Pride was easy; it was something of a family talent.

“I saved you because it was the right thing to do,” he said, his voice steely and formal. “Some of us choose to live by a moral code.”

He was only partly lying; his instincts had kicked in when he had seen someone smaller being threatened with violence, though he realized now that the thief was by no means weak or defenseless. But part of him had also wanted another opportunity simply to see the young man again, get a proper look at him, talk to him. Look how well that was turning out.

If he’d meant the words to be chastising, they had the opposite effect. The thief’s eyes slipped down Marcus’s chest, landing on the two medals he always wore pinned to his jacket, over his heart. The first was his Queen’s South Africa Medal, with it’s clasps indicating the battles he had seen in the Boer Wars. The second was his Victoria Cross, a decoration of distinguished service he had received after his discharge.

He wore the medals with a mix of pride and shame. Pride for his service, shame that he hadn’t done more, _been_ more. A reminder that he would never be enough. But for the first time, this stranger’s look of utter disgust made Marcus feel a different kind of shame.

“Yeah, I bet you showed your _morals_ to those people you went to conquer and steal from too,” the thief sneered, voice dripping with derision. Without his bidding, images flashed to Marcus’s mind, of farmers and soldiers, their blood watering the arid sands.

Marcus physically stumbled away, from the venom in the stranger’s voice, from his own memories. In a flash, the boy was gone, disappearing back around the corner and quickly blending in to the anonymous crowds of the streets. Marcus stared after him but he had disappeared once again, like an apparition.

Marcus turned towards home, forgetting his errand altogether as his mind reeled. He no longer took any note of his surroundings, limping as fast as he could toward the safety and solitude of the library.

The opinion of a complete stranger, and a thief at that, shouldn’t matter to Marcus. He had served his nation proudly. He’d been called a hero. And yet for some reason in that moment it all felt oddly hollow. How did this one man keep popping into his life and throwing it completely off kilter? It was inexcusable. Marcus resolved to put it out of his mind and think of him no more.

But the pain in his chest didn’t fade all the way home, or by the time he settled into a fitful sleep that night, his dreams haunted by scores of nameless faces he could never forget.

\----

The next morning Marcus was caught off guard in the middle of attempting to read, steadfastly _not_ thinking about the thief, when Stephanos knocked on the library door to announce a caller. Most guests came to see his uncle, not Marcus, and Stephanos’s grimace of displeasure indicated that it wasn’t any of their usual small group of acquaintances.

“See him in,” Marcus instructed, sighing with a mixture of relief and apprehension as he put aside his book; he could certainly use a distraction this morning, even from one of his uncle’s gossipy old friends. But Stephanos stood his ground, hesitating a moment before responding.

“He is at the servant’s entrance, young master. I don’t wish to inconvenience you, but I believe it would be more _appropriate_ for you to see him there.”

Marcus’s curiosity was peaked. If it was simply a messenger they would have given the butler their missive and waited for a reply. No one else he knew would use a servant’s entrance.

A feeling of anticipation curled in Marcus’s stomach as he followed Stephanos through the winding hallways bellow-stairs. The warren of pantries and cupboards had once been filled with a bustling staff, but these days it was quiet as a mausoleum. The butler looked highly agitated at Marcus’s presence there, but said nothing. The cook, old Ms. Sasstica, greeted Marcus with surprise as he went by. It had been many years since Marcus had snuck down to the kitchens to steal her honey cakes, fresh out of the oven.

The feeling of mixed anticipation and dread increased as Marcus rounded the last corner. He didn’t even dare to hope and yet he couldn’t stop himself from picturing—

There, leaning in the doorway looking fierce and proud was a figure that had already become achingly familiar to Marcus’s trained eyes. The young gypsy looked up as they approached, straightening his posture and squaring his shoulders as if expecting a confrontation. Marcus was too surprised to summon the anger he had felt the day before.

Before Marcus could speak, the gypsy held out his hand, brandishing something under Marcus’s nose. It took Marcus a dazed moment to recognize his wallet, the one that had been snatched from his pocket at the fair.

Marcus held out his hand to accept the wallet, but could find no words in reply. The thief saved him the trouble, his lilting accent once again filling Marcus’s senses.

“You don’t know me, and I don’t know you,” he said, shifting his weight from foot to foot nervously. “You may not approve, but I have my own moral code. And I may not like it, but I owe you a debt. This is your repayment.”

His eyes pierced through Marcus, full of resentment and a fierce pride that reminded Marcus of himself, not so many years ago, when he’d had so much anger and so much to prove. In that moment they didn’t seem so different at all.

The thief waited, for what Marcus wasn’t sure. Chastisement? Thanks? Insult?

Marcus remained silent, studying him, and suddenly the stranger nodded, once, as if he has made up his mind about something, and turned to go. Marcus felt a moment of blinding panic as that back turned towards him once again, taking his breath with it. He hadn’t even realized how badly he had wanted to see those piercing eyes again, how he longed to hear more of the unusual accent. And now the man whose memory had haunted him for days was standing in his doorway and Marcus was struck dumb with desperation. Floundering, he uttered the first thing that came to mind: “What is your name?”

The stranger turned back to him sharply, examining Marcus with hard eyes as if he expected a trick of some sort. Marcus held his breath and waited. His soldiering instincts told him this moment was tactically crucial, the turning point that would win or lose this battle. Finally the stranger replied: “Esca.” And Marcus remembered to breathe again.

“Marcus Aquila,” he replied, holding out his hand. Esca’s eyes widened, in either surprise or suspicion, but he took the proffered hand and shook, his callused fingers a match to Marcus’s own.

“Esca,” Marcus said, testing the name on his tongue as he reluctantly pulled his hand away after holding on just a moment too long. He cleared his throat, pushing away the awkwardness. They were on his turf this time, the next move was in his hands. “Would you like to join me for tea?”

The shocked look Esca gave him was almost comical. It had seemed like a perfectly reasonable request to Marcus, but Esca looked at him as if he had suggested they pop in for supper with the Queen herself.

“Are you stupid, or just dense?” Esca asked, but his tone was amused this time, rather than insulting. Marcus looked at him with genuine confusion and Esca sighed, a longsuffering sound that Stephanos often employed with his uncle. “Dense, then.”

Esca turned away and Marcus felt that sickening panic return. He had insulted Esca, and now he was going to disappear again, maybe forever this time, and why was that such a horrible thought?

Esca took a few steps and stopped, looking back over his shoulder. “Well, are you coming, then?” he asked. Before Marcus could even think, he was nodding and following along, out the servant’s entrance and through the narrow back alley, without his overcoat or his cane or a word to anyone about his plans. He heard Stephanos call out behind him, but he couldn’t turn back for fear of losing sight of Esca in the crowded streets.

Esca paused and waited for Marcus to catch up before wordlessly leading the way, navigating the narrow alleys and backways through the less reputable areas of town where Marcus had never dared venture before. They passed by jammed marketplaces filled with shouting vendors and rotting wares and the stench of fish, past shouting groups of men gathered around a game of dice or huddled in tight circles to watch a cock fight. Somehow it made it all the more exciting and thrilling, to be following this intriguing stranger through uncharted territories.

Esca seemed to know exactly where he was going, and he didn’t even pause as he turned into a small hole in the wall that appeared to be no more than a cramped storeroom to Marcus, no sign above the lintel to indicate it was a place of business at all. Inside was a small, low-ceilinged tavern, stuffed from wall to wall with worn wooden tables and mismatched chairs. Marcus had to stoop a bit to avoid hitting his head on the exposed beams of the ceiling, which somehow seemed as stained as the rough hewn walls and floor. The lighting was dim, just a few rudimentary gas fixtures, which lent the small space a surprisingly cozy aura.

Half the tables were already occupied by dockworkers and laborers and the habitually unemployed, drinking away their sorrows or celebrating money earned. It was the sort of place many of the soldiers under Marcus’s command would have favored, but Marcus had never let himself fraternize too closely with them. He felt distinctly out of place in his somber black suit and tidy waistcoat, but at least his bulky frame seemed more suited to this rough environment than his uncle’s stylish dining room. If anyone noticed his polished shoes or the fine material of his trousers, they said nothing, too occupied with their own shouted conversations and arguments and bawdy drinking songs that Marcus remembered from the service. That, oddly enough, made him feel more at home than he had in months of living with his uncle.

Esca led the way to a wobbly table in the corner, making a quick motion to the man behind the makeshift bar before taking a seat. Marcus sat across from him, the small table leaving barely any space between them, so their knees knocked together awkwardly beneath. Esca removed his cap and set it aside, and for the first time Marcus had an unobstructed view of his face.

His dark blond hair was shaggy and hung down over his forehead in loosely tousled waves. It stuck out over ears that were just oversized enough to be endearing, making his face look younger, softer. His nose was small and straight, his lips a thin, grim line.

But his eyes were what arrested Marcus’s gaze. Before, Marcus had only seen them from under the shadow of his cap. He had been able to tell that they were hard and fierce and piercing, but without the obstruction he could finally make out their color, a haunting mix of green and honey flecks, like no color he had seen before. Even in the low light of the tavern, they were utterly fascinating.

Marcus only realized he was staring when he was interrupted by the barkeep setting two large clay mugs before them. Marcus lifted his to take a sniff, and pulled back in surprise. The smell alone would have been enough to intoxicate some men, the vapors almost overpowering. Esca took a long sip and smiled at Marcus, a challenging, mocking grin.

Marcus smiled right back and took a sip from his own cup, barely managing to hold back a cough as fire raced down his throat. It had been a long time since he’d had a drink like that.

“Like it?” Esca asked, one eyebrow raised in mock-concern.

Marcus simply smiled back. “It’s good. Reminds me of some of the finer vintages we used to get hold of back in the army. Just about anything will do when you’re stuck in a desert.”

Something shifted in Esca’s face, the hard mask that Marcus had seen the day before returning. There were a few moments of awkward silence as they both sipped their drinks, the tension growing and expanding to fill the small space between them.

“So,” Esca said, his voice sounding an equal mix of indifferent and disdainful. “You were a soldier, then?”

Esca already knew the answer, Marcus wasn’t sure what else he was digging for. He didn’t wish for another confrontation, not now that they had finally formed this tenuous sort of truce.

“Yes, in Africa,” Marcus replied, not wanting to go into greater detail. Most people had heard the newspaper reports about the war, filled with Britain’s glorious victories. That was all they really wanted to know.

“That how you earned the lame leg? Your reward for service to the Empire?” Esca’s lips curled in a disdainful sneer, but Marcus detected a hint of something else in his eyes. Curiosity, maybe.

Marcus winced at the thought of himself as lame. That was how other people saw him now, lame and useless. He had known this, had lived in dread of the pitying looks and ill-concealed stares. It somehow hurt even more coming from this strong, wiry, graceful young man, to know that in his eyes Marcus was nothing more than a defective wretch. He set his shoulders against the sting and called on what little remaining pride he still clung to. It was an inadequate balm, but all he had.

“Yes,” he replied, voice stiff and formal, that of the soldier he had once been. “For my Queen, for my country, for my brothers in arms,” he looked down at the scarred tabletop, unable to meet Esca’s eyes. “And for my father,” he finished, and took a gulp of the burning liquid.

“Your father?” Esca asked, and there was more curiosity now than contempt as he leaned closer across the small table. “Was he a soldier too?”

“He was,” Marcus replied, with a note of finality that warned Esca from any further probing. There were some topics he would not discuss with a virtual stranger he had met off the street; his family’s pride and his own failings were two of them.

“What about you?” he asked instead, glancing up to study Esca with new interest. “Why do you do what you do?” It should have sounded accusatory, he meant it to be, but instead it was just inquisitive. What circumstances led one to a life of pickpocketing and petty theft? And how had Esca ended up amongst the gypsies? Now that Marcus could see his face it was obvious that his skin was far too fair, his features too fine, to be one of them by blood, even though he wore their motley garb. Marcus had read the social reform pamphlets on class disparity, had hear the tales of the gypsies barbaric ways. But that was all abstract, where Esca was all too real and all too intriguing, and Marcus found he wanted to know his story, not just out of idle curiosity.

For a moment Esca’s eyes hardened, and Marcus thought he wouldn’t answer. But then he whispered, his words barely carrying over the noise of the tavern. “For brothers in arms. For family.” He met Marcus’s eye with a defiant look that dared him to mock or take offense as Esca parroted his own words back at him. Marcus did neither, simply waiting. Esca took a long sip from his glass before continuing.

“I was orphaned as a child. Or maybe abandoned. I don’t know. The Roma found me wandering the streets of the city, eating scraps of food from the gutters and stealing what I could. They said I had a talent for it, even then.” He said this with a fond smile, as if it were an old family joke, a source of pride; it was the same look Marcus’s father used to get when he said that soldiering was in the Aquila blood. “They took me in, made me one of their own, taught me their language and their trade. No one else wanted me. You and your glorious empire had no place for me, or for them, so we live as we must, on the outskirts. It suits us fine,” he said, with another rebellious glance at Marcus, daring him to disagree.

But Marcus remained silent and Esca’s tongue slowly loosened, telling Marcus stories of a childhood spent in wild misadventure, of mishaps and close calls and triumphs, of a close-knit community that was more like a family than Marcus’s distant father had ever been. He told Marcus their tales of epic journeys, passed down over generations, and the superstitions behind the customs they still upheld. It was beautiful and Esca’s voice was soft and warm and it made Marcus nostalgic for something he couldn’t define, something he had never known.

The spell broke when another patron drunkenly swerved into their table, knocking over their now-empty glasses. Esca looked up in surprise, as if he had forgotten where they were, so caught up in his own memories. Marcus wanted to say something, to thank Esca for sharing such a gift with him, but everything he could think of sounded inadequate, or worse, condescending. Instead he kept quiet and hoped Esca’s sharp eyes would read what he couldn’t say.

Esca studied him for a few interminable moments before nodding his head once, almost shyly, then rising to his feet. Marcus followed suit, somewhat stiffly after sitting in the rickety chair for so long.

“I should get back to the camp,” Esca said, shifting on the balls of his feet and not quite meeting Marcus’s eye.

Marcus nodded, reluctant to let him go, but unable to make him stay. “Can I see you again?” he asked instead, hoping it didn’t sound as over-eager to Esca as it did to his own ears. A flicker of surprise flashed across Esca’s expressive face before he smiled a slow, easy grin that made Marcus’s legs feel weak for entirely different reasons.

“You know where to find me,” Esca replied, pulling his cap back on and tugging at the brim in a farewell salute. And then he was out the door, dissolving back into the nameless mass of faces and bodies of London once again.

Marcus left a few coins on the table in payment and set off towards home. This time as he passed through the crowded alleys and crammed markets he saw them with new eyes, as Esca might see them. And if Stephanos wrinkled his nose and exclaimed at the stench Marcus had brought home with him, Marcus barely heard.

\---

Marcus managed to hold out several days before he went searching for Esca again. He didn’t want to seem over-eager, though that’s exactly what he was.

He spent the first day attempting to read in the library as usual, but the dusty volumes no longer held his interest at all. He took several strolls around the neighborhood and through the parks, but the prim streets seemed boring now, in all their formerly comforting precision and order. Marcus longed for something that he couldn’t quite put his finger on, but he knew that Esca was the key.

On the third day he finally gave in. Uncle Aquila was out at his club, drinking and frittering the afternoon away with his old army buddies. Marcus donned his overcoat and grabbed his cane, telling Stephanos simply that he was going for a walk. It was none of the butler’s business _where_ he chose to walk, after all, though he had the unsettling feeling that Stephanos could see right through him, if his censorious glare was any indication.

The weather was finally warming, spring giving way to the early days of summer. The streets were filled with more people than usual, out enjoying the rare bit of sunshine before the more well-heeled among them would retire to the quiet of the country for the remainder of the summer.

The fairgrounds were thronged that day as well, as though everyone in the city had decided it was the perfect day to take in some amusement. At first Marcus despaired of ever finding Esca in this writhing sea of bodies, all moving in different directions with little discernible pattern. He barely noticed the attractions as he passed by, his eyes peeled for the sight of a lithe frame and a pale gray cap weaving amongst the crowds. But after nearly an hour of searching, he hadn’t caught so much as a glimpse of the elusive man. Perhaps he was plying his trade downtown again today, Marcus thought with despair, when a ripple of applause caused him to turn towards a small clearing.

A crowd was gathered around to watch a performance of a knife-throwers, hurling his daggers with great precision towards small targets. The _thunk_ of a blade sinking into wood was followed by another rowdy cheer. Marcus moved closer, intrigued by the display of martial skill.

The crowd was thick, but Marcus worked his way towards the front, apologizing as he bumped into people or accidentally put his cane on someone’s toes. Finally he was close enough to have a clear view, just as the performer released another perfectly aimed throw. The crowd gasped in unison as the knife whizzed towards a small apple, perched atop another man’s head. There was a collective sigh of relief and whoops of delight as the knife struck true, and the visibly relieved man caught the apple as it tumbled from its perch. Marcus was awed by such finely honed skill, and enthusiastically joined in with the clapping crowd. Then the performer turned in Marcus’s direction to retrieve another knife, and Marcus froze.

Here, at last, was Esca. He surveyed the crowd as he chose his next weapon, and Marcus could feel Esca’s eyes alight on him in recognition. Esca gave a brilliant smile, and suddenly the mild spring warmth felt sweltering as Marcus tugged at the stiff collar of his well-starched shirt.

Esca turned back to his targets with an exaggerated smirk of confidence, playing it up for the crowd. Marcus was completely entranced as he watched the graceful pull of muscles in Esca’s shoulders as he held the knife between two deft fingers, pulled back, and let it fly.

The show went on for nearly a quarter hour, and by the end the crowd was cheering and Esca was beginning to sweat in his bare shirtsleeves. The thin blue linen clung to his chest in damp patches, and Marcus was hard pressed to pull his gaze away. In the dappled sunlight falling through the leaves of the few scattered trees, Esca looked young and beautiful and so very alive in a way that made Marcus ache just to bask in the glow of his vitality.

The crowds dispersed as soon as it was clear there would be no more excitement. Esca mopped his brow with a rag and made his way towards Marcus, who was still frozen in place, his eyes glued to Esca.

“Enjoy the show?” Esca asked, drawing close with a cocky showman’s smile. If he was at all surprised to see Marcus there, he didn’t show it.

“Yes,” Marcus answered, far too fervently, before he could think to censure himself. “I mean,” he stumbled, clearing his throat and pulling his eyes away from the sweat beading along Esca’s exposed throat. “I mean, you’re very skilled. It was a very impressive display.”

Esca studied him for a moment, in that uncanny way that Marcus was already becoming familiar with, reading between the lines of Marcus’s words to see the whole truth. Marcus hoped his eyes didn’t give too much away. There were things brewing in his chest that even he wasn’t ready to examine.

Whatever Esca found in Marcus’s expression evidently pleased him, and he smiled. It was a smaller smile, more intimate than the one he had flashed the crowds. Marcus thought he saw a hint of a flush on Esca’s cheeks, though it was probably due to the heat and exertion, or so he firmly told himself. That was certainly the cause of his own flush, of course.

Once Esca packed away his knives, he took Marcus for a tour of the camp. The crowds continued to flow around them, but Marcus no longer even noticed. He kept his eyes on Esca’s back, never letting himself fall far behind. Esca pointed out particular attractions owned by friends or extended family. They stopped to watch the marionette show again, performed by Esca’s uncle and his cousin, only this time Marcus actually paid attention to the story, a tale of Roman soldiers in a distant land. No wonder his uncle had been so enraptured.

Walking with Esca, Marcus saw the fair through different eyes. It no longer felt like just some gauche show for tourists; instead he saw the overlapping lives and traditions, as Esca explained each new thing to him. It was like watching the world suddenly come to life around him.

Marcus was disappointed when the sun began to set and the tourists streamed out of the camp, relinquishing their temporary escape and returning to their real lives. He supposed he would have to join them. It had been the most enjoyable afternoon he’d had in...well, years, at least, but he would have to go home to quiet dinners with his uncle and a game of cards before bed. That was his life now.

So he was surprised when Esca looked at him expectantly and motioned back towards the camp. Marcus followed along as Esca led the way back behind all the public displays and stalls, to a small grouping of tents. Other Roma were huddled around them, packing up the day’s wares and preparing dinner over open fires. Marcus’s chest tightened at the intimacy of the scene. This was far different from simply enjoying the fair; he was being invited into their home.

Esca led Marcus over to a covered wagon where a woman was helping a man pack away boxes of goods. The man was tall and broad, with dark hair and a large, bushy beard that made his face look soft and inviting. The woman was nearly a foot shorter than him, small and compact like Esca, but with reddish-brown hair peaking out from beneath a colorful head wrap. She turned as Marcus and Esca approached, a wary look in her eyes. Only when they were standing directly before the couple did Marcus suddenly realize that these must be Esca’s adoptive parents.

“ _Dai, dadro_ , this is Marcus,” Esca said, looking nervously between the three. Marcus understood the feeling. He had never felt so out of place in his life, amongst these people with their words he could not understand and their critical, appraising looks. In the army they had not mingled much with foreign peoples. He felt more in a foreign country now than he ever had then.

“ _Gaje_?” His mother asked, her mouth twisted in a disapproving frown. She pointed to Marcus and shot off a string of rapid fire words that Marcus could not understand, though their tone was clear.

Esca responded in the same quick, indecipherable tongue. Marcus was entranced, listening to the foreign sounds spill from his lips like smooth silk. Even though his tone was clearly agitated, the sound of his voice was beautiful. Marcus ducked his head to hide his blush at the thought, hoping that it made him appear appropriately unassuming. He wasn’t sure why, but for some reason it hurt that Esca’s family might not approve of him. He was just beginning to feel like he might have Esca’s trust, but their opinion could shatter that tenuous bond.

Marcus looked up again to find Esca’s father observing him with kind eyes. Esca and his mother continued to exchange heated words, but his father seemed to not even hear them. Marcus wondered if perhaps this was a regular occurrence in their household.

“ _Monisha_ ,” he cut in to the squabbling, patting his wife soothingly on the arm. “This man is our son’s guest,” he continued in English, with an apologetic glance at Marcus. “We will welcome him as _bor_. It is our way.”

She gave her husband one half-heartedly angry glare before relenting. With stiff formality she turned to Marcus, dropping a sort of half-curtsy, and murmured her name, “Jaelle.”

Esca’s father smiled warmly at Marcus, holding out his hand. “Luca,” he introduced himself. Marcus shook his hand, feeling a flood of relief. They may be hesitant, but it seemed they would not turn him away, yet.

“Any friend of Esca’s is a friend of us all,” Luca said, gesturing expansively to the camp as a whole. “Welcome.”

Esca sighed with relief as he led Marcus away, over to one of the nearby tents. A girl stood outside, simmering something in a large copper pot hanging over an open fire. It smelled more subdued than the spicy foods for sale at the fair, more like the simple, filling meals Marcus had grown used to on campaign.

“ _Fei_ ,” Esca called, smiling at the girl as she looked up from her stirring. She smiled at Esca, but her smile widened into something mischievous as she took in Marcus at his side.

“Esca!” she called, rushing over to join them. Marcus’s stomach clenched uncomfortably as the girl pressed a quick kiss to Esca’s cheek before standing back with her hands on her hips, looking at the two of them expectantly.

“Marcus, this is my sister, Cottia,” Esca said with a look of such fondness and pride it made Marcus feel inexplicably bereft. He had never had any siblings, no brothers besides his brothers-in-arms, and certainly no sisters. For the first time he felt a pang of regret.

“Marcus,” Cottia practically purred, looking him over with bold eyes. She didn’t look much like Esca, her hair dark and curly, with deep brown chestnut eyes in contrast to Esca’s lighter coloring. But she shared his short, petite frame, and his frank manner. Marcus couldn’t quite decide if they were siblings by blood or not.

“So you’re the one who had Esca fuming mad, then?” Cottia asked, startling Marcus out of his examination of her. He could only gape at her in confusion, which made Cottia giggle, and Esca scowl at her. Esca tried to place a hand over her mouth before she could continue, but Cottia lightly twisted out of his grasp, squealing with delight.

“He is, isn’t he!” she crowded, dancing in circles, evading her brother’s grasp. “He talked of nothing else _all night_ , you know,” she continued, till Esca finally caught up with her, whispering furiously in her ear. Whatever he said did nothing to diminish her glee. “Well, Marcus, whatever Esca may think about you, _I_ am happy to meet you.” She held out her hand and Marcus shook it numbly, unsure of what to make of this whole scene. He was sure she was teasing him, the way his uncle sometimes did, though it felt entirely different in this situation. He thought it was something he might come to enjoy.

Esca continued to glare at Cottia as he helped her chop more ingredients to add to the simmering stew. Marcus’s offers to help had been firmly denied, so he sat back and observed the motions of the camp. More and more people came over to join them, bringing roasted rabbit and fresh baked bread and bottles of strong ale with them. Esca introduced each of them to Marcus in turn; some were cold and wary, like Jaelle, but most were welcoming, thumping Marcus on the back and offering him sips of their wine.

By the time the stew was ready it seemed most of the camp had congregated around their little fire. Cottia spooned out helpings into rough wooden bowls, passing them around the circle until everyone had a portion.

As they ate, the Roma talked. Sometimes in their own language, and then Marcus could only follow along through their expansive gestures and raucous laughter. Other stories were in English, told for his benefit, it seemed. They told stories of their day, the things they had seen and done, or stories from the past, that had the ring of oft-repeated favorites. It reminded Marcus of sitting down to dinner with his uncle and hearing all the latest news from his club, only far more colorful.

After the food was gone, the alcohol flowed a bit more freely, and some of the men brought out fiddles and drums and began to play familiar tunes that had everyone singing along.

Marcus was watching, enjoying the buzz of alcohol in his veins and the light feeling in his heart, when he felt a tug on his arm. Cottia was crouched by his side, grinning like a predatory cat. She tugged again, pulling him up and away from the fire. Marcus turned to catch Esca’s attention, but he was talking to the man beside him. Marcus couldn’t even protest as she dragged him away from the group.

“Did you know I read fortunes?” Cottia whispered, closer to his ear than Marcus had expected. He turned to find her watching him with a keenness disguised by her flirtatious smile. It made him wary.

“Oh?” he replied noncommittally. He had never believed in those superstitions, but was unwilling to offend one of his host.

“You don’t believe,” Cottia said, her smile predatory, rather than hurt. Marcus felt foreboding pool in his gut. “I’ll prove it to you, then,” she said, pulling on his arm to steer him off towards one of the wagons. Marcus looked around for Esca, but he was nowhere in sight, and Cottia’s grip was surprisingly strong. He had no choice but to limp after her as best he could.

She dumped Marcus down on a stool and set about digging through a trunk until she found what she was looking for with a triumphant shout.

“These cards,” she told him, fanning them out before her on the lid of the trunk, “can reveal your future. _If_ you know how to read them,” she added with a smug smile that was so like Esca’s own that for a moment Marcus was sure they were truly siblings.

Cottia shuffled the cards with quick fluid movements that Marcus could barely follow, before pushing them across the table.

“Split the deck and put the bottom cards on top of the pile,” she instructed, her tone suddenly grown serious. Marcus didn’t dare laugh anymore, doing exactly as she said. Cottia took the cards back, laid them in front of her, and took a deep breath. For a moment she didn’t move a muscle, and Marcus could only shift in his seat, waiting.

Cottia pulled the first card from the top of the deck, flipping it right side up and laying it down on the table. Marcus examined it, ready to ask questions, but Cottia simply drew another, and another. She pulled five cards in all, laying them in the shape of a cross.

For a long moment she looked over the cards with knitted brows, reading their meanings, Marcus guessed, though it looked more as if she listened to some voice he could not hear.

At last she looked up at him, a sad expression in her eyes, while her mouth attempted a reassuring smile. “You have a very interesting future, Marcus Aquila,” she said, reaching across the table to pat his hand. Marcus was startled, by the words and the touch, but he was too curious to pull away now. For some reason this moment felt important. He held his breath, waiting for her to continue.

“This card, here in the middle,” she said, pointing, “represents your present.” Marcus examined the card; it had a painting of a court jester in colorful robes and bells, the words _The Fool_ written below in a beautiful flowing script. “The Fool, placed upright, represents new beginnings. You are facing great changes in your life right now, Marcus.” She said this with a knowing smile, and Marcus couldn’t help but think of Esca, and everyone he had met this night. Changes hardly seemed adequate to describe everything he was experiencing.

“This card,” she pointed, moving to the right, “represents your past.” It was painted with a chariot, facing towards Marcus. “A dark past it is,” Cottia murmured, her eyes far away, haunted. After a moment she shook her head, as if casting aside her thoughts. She smiled at him once again, and moved on to the next card, below the center.

“This card is your future,” she said, frowning slightly. The card depicted a heralding angel with a trumpet and a cross. The word _Judgement_ was painted across the bottom. “This card signifies an awakening, though what kind I cannot say.” She glanced over all the cards again before reaching to the deck to pull one more, laying it aside the others. “The Six of Swords,” she mumbled, mostly to herself. “The journey will be delayed.” She glanced up at Marcus as if he may have the answers, but he was bewildered into silence.

Cottia rolled her shoulders in a delicate shrug before moving on, seemingly deciding to set aside or ignore whatever she saw in the cards which gave her pause. She moved on to the card to the left of the center. “This card is the best possible outcome,” she continued, her face brightening. The card was painted with an overflowing chalice. “This represents new love,” she whispered with a girlish giggle. Marcus felt his cheeks flush, wondering why she looked at him so knowingly. But it was followed by a pang of sadness; however good her skills might be, this surely could not be his future. Not anymore.

She patted his hand again, as if reading his thoughts. “This last card,” she said, pointing to the top of the cross, “is the worst outcome.” Marcus glanced at the card and felt a shiver race down his spine. It was a skeleton, dressed in flowing robes and holding a sickle. _Death_ , it read.

“Trapped,” Cottia whispered, frowning again. She pulled one more card from the deck, one with a woman surrounded by stars. _Nine of Pentacles_ , the words proclaimed. “Ah.” She looked up at Marcus with deep, mournful eyes. “Loss.” Marcus wasn’t sure what he still had left to lose, but a part of himself knew that wasn’t true. Something tickled at the back of his mind, something tenuous and still half-formed, but he knew he had to guard it, protect it.

Cottia looked up from her cards, studying Marcus closely for a moment. “Your future is still unformed,” she said, indicating the cards with a sweep of her hands. “You will face a crossroads, a choice that will lead to two outcomes.” Marcus looked at the _Death_ card again and shivered, despite the balmy evening air. “You must follow your heart,” she said earnestly, gazing at him with far too much understanding, “or you could break more than one.”

Then Cottia’s mystical and distant air disappeared, and she was one again the vibrant young girl Marcus had met. She tossed her hair over her shoulder, seeming to brush the seriousness of their conversation away with it. Marcus was still reeling when he heard footsteps approaching in the darkness.

“Ah, Esca, over here!” Cottia called, gathering up her cards and stowing them away.

Esca frowned at the two of them, sitting alone away from the rest of the camp. “What have you two been up to?” he asked, his gaze suspicious. He frowned at Cottia severely, but she only laughed, ruffling his hair like a child. He grimaced, trying to smooth it back into place but failing utterly.

“Oh, don’t be jealous, Esca, I was just telling Marcus his future,” she sing-songed, twirling out of reach of Esca’s swatting hand and skipping back towards the boisterous gathering.

Esca sighed, watching her go. “I hope she didn’t frighten you off,” Esca said, taking Cottia’s vacated seat across from Marcus.

“No, no it’s fine,” Marcus replied, shifting to stretch his sore leg. He didn’t realize just how long they had been sitting there. “It was...interesting,” he supplied when Esca cocked a brow at him in question. Esca just nodded, tracing his fingers over the scarred tabletop.

“Is she, um,” Marcus hesitated, clearing his throat. He didn’t know why, but the things she said had rattled him. He wanted to believe it was all in jest, but he had to know. “Is she ever right?”

Esca looked him in the eye, expression solemn. “Always,” he said.

\----

After that first evening, Marcus found himself spending more and more time at the camp. Most days he would show up in the afternoon, and if Esca were performing he would watch patiently, secretly enjoying the opportunity to observe Esca’s grace in motion. If Esca were busy with other duties he would visit Cottia at her tent or help Luca with some of the assorted maintenance duties around the camp.

If Aquila wasn’t expecting him back, Marcus would stay for dinner after the fair closed at dusk, eagerly accepting each new food that was presented to him. Sometimes he would stay to listen to the music and stories around the cookfire, returning home just in time to wish his uncle a goodnight before retiring.

He had become a familiar face, and most of the Roma had accepted him as _puyuria_ , a trusted outsider. He was a friend of Esca’s, and apparently that was enough for them. Even Jaelle had come around, beginning to treat Marcus in the same lovingly gruff manner as her own children. Their quiet acceptance filled a void in Marcus’s chest, one that had been there since he left the army. It was good to have comrades again.

Some days Esca could sneak away from his duties, and then they would go exploring together.

Often they would go fishing in a quiet stretch of the Thames, with only the seagulls and the lapping waters for company. They would spend the afternoon soaking in the sun, stripped to their shirtsleeves, dangling their feet in the water. Marcus found it liberating, to be alone with no one but Esca and the sky to judge him. He let himself relax in a way he hadn’t in years, perhaps ever.

Esca rarely caught anything, too impatient to wait for the fish to come to him. He would jerk the hook up as soon as he felt even the slightest tug, too excited to wait. Marcus, on the other hand, could sit still all afternoon, waiting for that one perfect bite that would land him a prize catch. Esca would always brag about Marcus’s skill when they brought their haul back to the camp for supper, exaggerating the mundane truth into epic exploits. Soon the whole camp believed Marcus to be the greatest fisherman to ever live.

Some days they explored the streets of the city, looking for unknown delights. Esca called these their ‘adventures.’ One time they discovered a little shop that sold all manner of mechanical devices. Esca had been entranced, wanting to know how each one worked. The shop owner indulged them until he realized that they were not going to buy anything, and became suspicious of Esca’s covetous glances. Marcus had gone back the next day to buy Esca a little mechanical soldier.

Some days Cottia would tag long, like the time Marcus learned to throw dice with a group of laborers down at the docks. They had been suspicious of Marcus at first, though they accepted Esca and Cottia easily enough, and Marcus too, once they realized he had plenty of money to lose. Marcus was glad to lose all of it, if he got to watch Esca’s expressive face as he shouted in joy or cursed his bad luck. Cottia, unsurprisingly, was either uncannily lucky or a genius cheat, because she somehow ended up with most of Marcus’s money in her pocket. Marcus went home that night with a light purse, but a lighter heart.

One day their adventures took them down to the piers to watch the great ships come in with their cargoes of people and goods from all over the world.

“What was it like, to travel the world?” Esca asked, peering out across the open water. Marcus was slightly taken aback. They hadn’t really talked about his soldiering days, not since those first tense encounters. It was an unspoken subject between them.

“I don’t know,” Marcus replied, “I never thought much about it. I just went where they sent me. Each place was the same to me, it was where I did my duty.”

Esca seemed to mull that over in somber silence. It was probably incomprehensible to someone who took so much joy in his surroundings, who had such keen eyes for the world around him.

“Did you like it, being a soldier?” he asked, and Marcus didn’t know how to answer that either. He had never really thought about it. Being a soldier wasn’t a matter of like or dislike or want, it was simply what he _did_ , because of who he was. Because of who his father was.

“I liked parts of it,” he answered honestly. “I liked living with my men, training them, watching them become a cohesive unit. I liked the efficiency and purpose. I liked the feeling of pride. But there were things…” he trailed off, unable to conjure up those images that he had almost managed to forget over the past weeks.

Esca simply nodded, seeming to understand what Marcus left unsaid. “You said, once, that your father was a soldier too,” he prompted, leaving it open ended for Marcus to either pick up or leave aside. It wasn’t something Marcus particularly wanted to discuss, but Esca had opened his whole world to Marcus; the least he could do was share the only part of himself he knew with any certainty.

“My father was a general in South Africa, in the first war there, ten years ago. A great man, people used to say. That was before the battle at Bronkhorstspruit. Before his mistakes lost over 150 lives, including his own. After that, everyone spoke the name Aquila with derision. My mother was so ashamed, she moved to the country to escape the whispers and stares. I swore to her that I would win back our family’s good name. I would finish my father’s war. I was going to win so much glory that no one would even remember his name.” Marcus could feel his throat constricting. He would _not_ cry in front of Esca, not over something so pitiful, not in public. He paused to collect himself, and Esca just watched him with sympathetic eyes.

“But you were injured,” Esca supplied, sensing the ending to the story. Marcus nodded, unconsciously rubbing at his leg. “There is no shame in having your own dreams, living your own life,” Esca whispered, leaning close, his words nearly snatched away by the wind. His hand briefly brushed against Marcus’s, where it rested over his wound. It felt like absolution.

They didn’t speak of Marcus’s past again, but a new closeness had settled between them. Marcus felt as if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. If he smiled more freely after that, no one seemed to notice but Esca, whose sharp eyes didn’t miss a thing.  
\---

That, as it turned out, wasn’t exactly true.

Marcus returned late one evening to find his uncle sitting in the drawing room, a book spread in his lap and a glass of brandy swirling lazily in his hand. Marcus meant to make his apologies for missing dinner, but Aquila merely looked up and smiled.

“Marcus, my boy,” he said kindly, indicating the chair across from his own. “Out having adventures, were you?”

Marcus smiled to himself as he remembered his and Esca’s latest ‘adventure,’ when they had gone to watch the horse races, Esca using his years of experience to size up each of the horses in turn. But no, tonight he had spent an excruciating evening with Cottia, finally giving in to her insistence to give him dance lessons, while Esca merely looked on and laughed himself silly at Marcus’s jerky movements. He didn’t think that making a fool of himself quite qualified as an adventure, but Aquila must have read between the lines of his smiling silence.

“Ah, to be young,” the old man sighed dramatically, toasting the air before taking a long draught from his glass. “Is she very beautiful?” he asked suddenly, catching Marcus off guard.

He was so shocked by the question he nearly choked on thin air in his sputtering attempts to reply. Aquila laughed heartily and reached over the thump Marcus on the back with an open palm. “I’ll take that as a yes?” Aquila hazarded, his eyes twinkling.

“There is no woman, uncle,” Marcus finally managed to reply, the color rising high on his cheeks.

“Really?” Aquila asked, brow knitted. “Strange. The way you’ve been acting lately is the happiest I have seen you in quite possibly all your life. I remember the days of my youth, though you may not believe it. I thought perhaps you had finally found your heart’s other half.”

Aquila shrugged, tactfully turning away to refresh his half-full glass and let Marcus regain his composure. Marcus could feel the heat flaming in his cheeks. Is that really how he appeared to his uncle, a lovesick fool? Did others think so too? Marcus thought of Cottia’s indulgent smiles and Luca’s glowing eyes as he watched Marcus and Esca together. Oh God, they did.

He thought of the way he and Esca smiled and laughed together, sometimes needing no more than a look to communicate. Did they look in love? The thought made something warm inside of Marcus, though perhaps he should have been appalled. His friendship with Esca was no different than the bonds he had shared with his fellow soldiers, though even as he thought the words he knew them to be untrue. What he felt for Esca was something different, something deeper, something he had no words to describe.

“A new friend, then,” Aquila continued, breaking into Marcus’s thoughts. “I should like to meet this person who can put a smile on my dour nephew’s face.” It was said with a teasing affection, but Marcus could see the seriousness in his uncle’s eyes. It might be risky, but why shouldn’t be introduce Esca to Uncle Aquila? He had a strong feeling that they would like each other very much. Though bringing a pickpocketing gypsy, friend or no, to his uncle’s townhouse would be out of the question. It would be the scandal of the neighborhood.

“Perhaps,” Marcus hedged, but Aquila didn’t push any further.

“You know, I was thinking the other day,” Aquila said, mercifully changing the subject, “that you seem quite settled here in London. And I like having you here, as well. Family becomes a great comfort in old age.” He was exaggerating, but Marcus could hear the sincerity beneath the banter. His uncle had never had a wife or children, and had always treated Marcus as his own. Marcus was more grateful than he could say, so he simply nodded as his uncle chattered on, sure there was some meaning to this conversation besides sentimental rambling.

“My man of business sent me an update on your accounts the other day. I had forgotten entirely about your mother’s farm.”

Until that moment, Marcus had forgotten as well. The farm was little more than a summer cottage which Marcus’s mother had inherited from a distant relative. She had retired there after her husband’s death, but Marcus was already grown by then and had only been there on a few occasions. As he remembered, it was small and cozy, isolated amongst green hills and sprawling orchards.

Marcus had always assumed that he would serve out his years until retirement in the army, and by then have earned enough to buy his own estate, somewhere in the country, with a large family to fill it. But now, broken and dependent on the charity of his uncle, that all seemed a faraway fantasy.

“What about it?” Marcus asked, unsure now where this conversation was going.

“Well, if it would be alright with you, I thought you might put it up for sale. It would be good for you to have some funds in your own name, just in case.”

It was a sensible plan. Marcus would never be fit for farming, and the land was probably falling into disrepair. It was better that he give up on those old dreams once and for all. This was his home now, and even if it never felt truly his own, it was more than he could have rightfully hoped for. His mind flashed to the warmth of a campfire surrounded by smiling faces and felt a pang of longing, but quickly put it from his mind.

“Have your man put it up for sale,” Marcus instructed, suddenly feeling weary. The wine and the evening’s dancing were catching up with him now.

“I will write to him tomorrow,” Aquila acquiesced, saluting Marcus a good night as he rose to head for bed.

“Marcus,” he called as his nephew reached the door. “I truly am glad you’re here.”

“Me too,” Marcus replied, and it didn’t feel like a lie so much as a half-truth.

\---

Aquila did eventually meet Esca, though not by design. As with so much in Marcus’s life over the past few months, it happened by pure coincidence (though Cottia would insist there was no such thing).

Their adventure that day had taken them to Hyde Park to feed the birds. Marcus couldn’t understand Esca’s fascination with the scraggly park pigeons. Esca said they reminded of himself, though Marcus couldn’t see the similarity. If anything, Esca would be an eagle, strong and bold and beautiful, but Esca insisted he was missing the point, and sprinkled breadcrumbs at Marcus’s feet so the small birds swarmed to him.

Marcus was too busy laughing and fighting off their pecking advances to notice the familiar man strolling up the lane towards them.

“Marcus!” Aquila called out, shuffling the stack of books in his arm so he could free one hand to wave. Marcus knew his uncle had planned on taking a trip to the bookshop this morning; he must have decided to take the long way home through the park.

Marcus’s laugh froze in his throat as Aquila approached. Esca raised an eyebrow at Marcus, but didn’t seem concerned at the sight of the friendly old man. Not that there was any reason to worry, but suddenly Marcus felt off-kilter. He had intended to introduce them, eventually, but now he’d been caught off guard. He felt somehow exposed, his usually careful mask missing. He wasn’t sure he could face such an important moment in this state.

“Ah, so this must be the friend you’ve been spending so much of your time with,” Aquila said as he came to stand before them, taking in the scene-- including Marcus’s crumb-covered shoes-- with a strange smile. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” Aquila paused, waiting for an introduction as he held out his hand to the stranger.

“Uncle, this is Esca,” Marcus supplied, glancing warily between the two of them. Esca seemed to look Aquila over for a moment with those same keen eyes that had dissected Marcus and laid him bare. Apparently he approved of what he saw, for he took Aquila’s hand in his own and shook, offering the older man a strangely conspiratorial smile, which Aquila returned.

“You can call me Aquila, everyone does” his uncle supplied, letting go of Esca’s hand. “Esca,” Aquila repeated, drawing out the sound of the name experimentally. He looked Esca over from top to bottom with the keen eyes of an ex-soldier. “Strange name for a Roma, isn’t it?”

Marcus wasn’t sure what caused him to flinch in surprise. It wasn’t that he was ashamed of Esca’s people, or had planned to hide Esca’s background from his uncle. Esca certainly made no attempt to conceal it, with his raucous mishmash of colors and patterns. But Marcus couldn’t help feeling like he had as a little boy, when his father had caught him playing with the servants and lectured him about fraternizing with those ‘below their family’s dignity.’

Rather than disapproving, Aquila looked intrigued. Esca must have felt the difference too, because he merely shrugged. “The name was all I had before I joined the Roma.” Marcus was sure such a statement would raise yet more questions from his uncle, but Aquila kept quiet, simply nodding at Esca as thought he understood everything.

“Well, it is certainly nice to meet you, at last,” Aquila said instead, with a pointed look at Marcus. “I have wanted to thank whoever was responsible for breaking my dear nephew out of his shell. It has been many years since he smiled so freely.”

Marcus wished the cobblestones would open up and swallow him whole as he felt his cheeks flush furiously. He was certain his uncle was doing this on purpose. Maybe it was his punishment for keeping secrets. Esca looked between the two men in confusion for a moment, his eyes no doubt catching Marcus’s acute embarrassment and the warmth in Aquila’s smile. The sting was soothed somewhat when Esca smiled at Marcus, soft and happy and maybe a bit fondly exasperated. Marcus was getting better at deciphering Esca’s smiles, which were becoming more frequent these days.

“He’s a good man,” Esca said softly, eyes never leaving Marcus’s, though his words seemed to be directed at Aquila.

“That he is,” Aquila replied with surprising solemnity. “Well, I suppose I’ve held you young men up long enough,” he continued after a moment of intense silence. He winked at Marcus none too subtly, shattering the serious mood that had descended. “Esca, it was a pleasure meeting you. I hope you’ll join us for supper some time, it would be our pleasure to have you.”

Marcus was stunned by the invitation. He didn’t doubt his uncle’s sincerity, though he wondered what Esca would think. Esca never seemed very comfortable in formal settings, or anywhere indoors, for that matter. What would he make of Marcus’s home? For some reason it struck Marcus as important that Esca feel welcome there.

Aquila strode off, humming his marching tune under his breath. Marcus waited for Esca to speak, to give some indication of his thoughts on everything that had just happened. It seemed like only a few moments of conversation, and yet Marcus felt like it had somehow exposed another part of himself to Esca.

Esca simply continued scattering his crumbs to the birds, whistling soft chirps between his pursed lips.

“You would be an eagle,” he said at last, not looking up from the birds. “I am happy just to be a pigeon.”

\---

The Roma held a large celebration for the summer solstice in June. Esca told Marcus about the festivities in rushed, excited tones, sometimes slipping back into the Romani tongue without seeming to notice. His excitement was infectious. The whole camp was abuzz with the preparations as the men slaughtered the fattened geese and gathered the strongest wines and prepared their instruments, while the women began a several-day process of cooking for the enormous feast. The air was filled with so much spice it was hard to breathe, and Marcus and Esca were banished when Esca stole a fresh tart from the cooking fire.

Cottia and the other young girls were busy decorating themselves, weaving feathers and bits of cloth into their braids and patching together brightly colored skirts. Esca, for his part, was dispatched to ‘acquire’ some hard spirits for the occasion, and Marcus simply looked the other way and pretended not to know where any of the bounty came from.

On the day of the celebration, the festivities began as soon as the sun started to sink over the horizon, and the last of the tourists trickled back towards home. It began with music, rowdy and jovial, as food was laid out and the drinking commenced.

When everything was prepared they all sat together, crowding around a large bonfire to exchange shouted jokes and stories while they ate their fill. Marcus and Esca sat with Cottia and her friends, listening to them gossip and squeal as they made flirtatious faces across the fire with the boys they hoped to dance with that night. It filled Marcus with a great nostalgia for a youth he had never really had. There had been no flirting and dancing and fun as his father drilled him in military protocol and procedure. It made him ache for something he couldn’t have.

After the food, the dancing began. Marcus protested Cottia’s attempts to coax him into joining. She had slowly been trying to teach him the movements, his leg still made him jerky and ungainly. It was one thing to embarrass himself in front of her and Esca, but he couldn’t bear the thought of the whole camp laughing at his weakness.

 

“Fine,” she pouted, giving up at last. She leaned in close and Marcus thought she meant to kiss him on the cheek, but instead she whispered in his ear, just loud enough to be heard over the thrumming music: “Your two paths will appear tonight, Marcus. Remember to let your heart guide you.”

She disappeared into the smoky darkness before Marcus could make any sense of her cryptic words. It sparked a half-formed memory in his mind, but it was quickly banished by the noise and excitement.

 

Esca stayed by his side for a while, explaining the dances to Marcus. Some, he said, were as old as the Roma themselves, passed down from generation to generation. They told stories, of the thrill of life, of tragedy, or joy and the pure exultation of the open road. The dancers whirled and dipped and clapped and stomped with such exhilaration, such joy in simply moving and being alive. Marcus wondered if he had ever been so free, or so perfectly, incandescently happy. He thought of Esca laughing, face illuminated with joy, and thought that perhaps, in fact, he had.

After a while of watching, Esca rose to join in and Marcus was entranced for entirely different reasons. The drums thumped and the violins whined and Esca’s body moved with the fluid grace of a wild, natural thing. He was all long limbs and strength as he spun Cottia in intricate circles, making her squeal with delight. It made unbidden jealousy stir in Marcus’s chest, to watch them be so intimate, so uninhibited.

As the night wore on the dances became more subdued, the alcohol inducing a calm, dream-like daze across the camp. Couples broke away to go off in search of privacy, children crawled off to find their beds. The great fire began to die down, and Esca returned to Marcus’s side.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” Esca asked, his voice hoarse from laughing and shouting. He was so beautiful in that moment, his features limned in the firelight, looking at Marcus with a half-lidded smile of utter contentment. Marcus ached to reach out and trace the planes of his face, to feel the softness of his tousled hair. To press his lips against Esca’s and taste the night’s wine.

In that moment, Marcus knew he was lost, just as he realized that the one thing he had ever truly wanted could never be his.

“Yes,” Marcus replied gruffly, his voice gone husky with wine and smoke and repressed _want_. If Esca noticed, he said nothing. They sat close in the firelight, not speaking, both of them seeming to be waiting for something.

The spell was broken when one of the dogs got too close to the chicken coop, raising a mighty ruckus in the quiet night. Marcus wasn’t sure whether to be disappointed or relieved as he said his quiet goodnights and headed for home.

As Marcus climbed the stairs to his bedroom in the early hours of the morning, he tried not to think of who Esca would be skulking off into the shadows with this night, and how badly he wished it could be him.

\---

As the summer days started to grow shorter and the heat cooled, Marcus could sense something was amiss with Esca. He was restless, as if he were uncomfortable in his own skin, something Marcus had never seen in him before. There were evenings where they would sit around the campfire and Esca would remain silent, almost brooding, as he watched the flames dance, refusing to join in the joyful songs or storytelling. They spent more afternoons together than they had before, as if Esca were desperate for more time, as if he were storing away these moments. It made Marcus’s stomach twist with foreboding.

Marcus, for his part, was happy to oblige. Ever since the night of the solstice bonfire, he both craved and dreaded Esca’s company. Just being with Esca, seeing the world as he saw it, lifted a weight from Marcus’s shoulders. He could just be Marcus, not his father’s son, not the honored war hero.

At the same time, however, Marcus found their simple companionship to no longer be enough. He longed to reach out and touch the freckles that littered Esca’s summer-tanned skin, or to brush the overgrown hair out of those fiery eyes. He wanted things he couldn’t even put a name to, but which he instinctively knew were things that were never to be spoken of. He remembered his time with the army, the close friendships that had formed between men that were never spoken of openly, never acknowledged. It was allowable in the midst of war, but even then, they all knew it was shameful. Here, in the heart of the civilized world, such things could never exist outside Marcus’s unguarded dreams. If Esca knew he would surely turn away in disgust.

But some days he would look at Marcus with a soft, fond look, and Marcus couldn’t quite quash the wild hope that stirred beneath his ribs.

He should have known from the beginning. The gypsy camp had sprouted up on the outskirts of the city like a ghost ship, appearing out of nowhere. It simply hadn’t occurred to Marcus that it would disappear just as quickly and quietly and without much fanfare. He only realized the impending departure when he came to the camp one afternoon in search of Esca, hoping they might spend the afternoon down by the river together, watching the boats sail past, as Esca loved. The camp was almost deserted of visitors today, unnaturally quiet in the pale afternoon sunlight.

Marcus spotted Luca by his wagon, but instead of hawking his wares to passerby, he seemed to be packing things away into old wooden trunks, painted with long-forgotten symbols.

“Ah, Marcus,” he greeted, with a strangely sad smile and a lingering hug. At first his shows of open affection had made Marcus deeply uncomfortable, but he had learned to appreciate the embrace, and returned it in kind. For the hundredth time, he wondered what it would have been like to grow up in this atmosphere, being cherished and valued. It would have been a much happier life, he imagined.

“What is going on, where are all the tourists?” Marcus asked, surveying the camp and noticing many more tents and stalls being packed away onto rickety flat-bed wagons. It made him deeply uneasy.

Luca looked at him with a mix of sadness and something that looked almost like pity. “The summer days wane, Marcus. Very soon it will be time for the Roma to move on. Such has always been our way.”

And in that moment, Marcus finally understood: Esca’s silences and brooding looks. The sullen hush that had settled over the camp.

They were leaving. _Esca_ was leaving.

Luca was saying something else, something about the north, and the harvest seasons, or maybe the weather. Marcus could barely hear him over the buzzing in his own ears. Esca was leaving him. Marcus had almost managed to forget that he was a Roma, in his heart if not in his blood. Esca was a wild thing, like a bird that could never be tamed or caged or bade to do anyone’s will but its own. He had spent a summer letting Marcus glimpse his world, but he could never be a part of Marcus’s. It was such a simple truth that Marcus had somehow let himself forget.

“Marcus. Marcus! Are you alright, my boy?” Luca asked, placing a concerned hand on Marcus’s shoulder. Marcus figured he probably looked as sickened as he felt. He tried to play it off and smiled weakly at Luca.

“I’m fine, just a bit tired today. Have you seen Esca?” He asked, feeling frantic. There was more he wanted to ask Luca: When were they leaving? Where were they going? Would they be coming back to London? He wanted to find Esca and ask him directly, though he wasn’t sure he could bare to hear the answers. He just needed to see Esca. Now.

“I think he went into town. He said something about delivering a letter, I think,” Luca replied, still looking at Marcus with concern.

“Thank you,” Marcus managed, lurching away and heading back towards the city with a hurried, stilted gait.

He hailed the first hansom cab he could, breathlessly giving the driver his uncle’s address as he ambled up into the seat. The streets were congested with afternoon joyriders, slowing the carriage to a crawl. Marcus felt like his heart was about to beat out of his chest in panic; he had never felt so frightened before, not even when faced with a barrage of enemy gunfire.

He practically threw the fare at the driver as he descended the cab and lumbered up the steps to his uncle’s door. Stephanos was standing in the open doorway, watching him in shocked bewilderment.

“Young Master,” Stephanos said, reaching out a steadying hand as Marcus stopped to catch his breath. “Are you quite alright? You look ghastly,” he said with unusual candor. Marcus waved him off, trying to slow his racing heart enough to enquire whether a letter had been delivered.

Stephanos beat him to the punch. “A young man just dropped this off for you, just a moment ago. At the front door, very unusual. Didn’t wait for a reply, just said to be sure you received it.”

The words seized Marcus’s chest; he was too late. He turned to scan the orderly streets, looking for a familiar face, a face he would know anywhere, by now. He thought he caught a glimpse of shaggy blond hair and a mishmash of colors, but then it was gone in the blink of an eye.

Marcus took the letter from the bewildered butler without a word, retreating to the seclusion of the library before he could be accosted by his uncle.

Marcus didn’t even pause to remove his coat or sit down; he tore open the letter, dread pooling in his stomach. He knew who it would be from even before he saw the neat, cramped letters.

_My dearest Marcus,_

_I’m sorry to be bidding my farewell to you in a letter rather than in person. I know it is cowardly of me, but I hope you will understand. If I saw you one last time, I’m afraid I would not be able to leave, and I must._

_They are my family. My place is with them. We may not be bound by blood, but we are bound by the heart, and those ties can never be broken. Please, remember that, Marcus._

_I wish that you will be safe and healthy, and that you will find your peace._

_Yours,_

_Esca_

His heart may have stopped beating in that moment, for all Marcus noticed. It felt like the world had stopped around him. Just as when his body had shattered, he felt a moment of intense calm, before the entire world became an explosion of pain.

He staggered into his chair, his bad leg suddenly refusing to support him. Marcus re-read the letter, twice, a dozen times more, looking for something, some clue, some hidden meaning. But all he could see was the one word that wasn’t there: goodbye.

He contemplated rushing down to the fairgrounds, ready to beg and plead and sacrifice his own pride if only Esca would stay. But he knew he could do no such thing. Esca was plainly asking Marcus not to interfere, the one and only request he had ever made of Marcus. As a testament to their friendship, he would honor that request. He would stay away, and let Esca leave in peace. Even if it broke him to do so.

\---

After that, it seemed like the last bits of color had drained from the dreary London landscape, leaving along with the gypsies and their brightly patterned cloths. The city went about life as if nothing had changed, and Marcus tried to follow suit.

He spent his afternoons locked away in the library, losing himself in books and glasses of strong gin. When he fell asleep in his chair it was to entirely different nightmares now, more haunting memories, but these ones filled with smiles and sun-warmed skin and secrets shared by firelight. They left Marcus just as shaken and hollow inside.

Marcus didn’t dare leave the comforting walls of the house. Outside, the world seemed both larger and smaller at once; larger for all the more he now knew of it now, all the new faces he had seen and places he had been. But there was no longer any purpose in going out, because the one face he hoped to see most would not be there. He couldn’t go to the places they had been together without feeling despair, couldn’t walk amongst crowds without his eyes betraying him and searching out a familiar profile. It was torture he refused to put himself through.

And so he sat, and sulked, and tried to make himself forget. Aquila indulged him for the first week, leaving Marcus to his solitude, not asking questions he already knew the answers to. It was like Marcus was newly injured all over again, only now the healing was much slower and more agonizing.

Aquila remained silent until one afternoon, when Marcus was ensconced in the library as usual, doing more drinking than actual reading. Aquila came in without a knock or an apology, and settled himself in the chair across form Marcus with a stern stare.

Marcus stared back balefully, in no mood for his uncle’s chatter today. What came out of his uncle’s mouth caught him completely off guard.

“Go after him.” Marcus could only stare dumbly, sure that he had misheard.

“Excuse me?” he gasped.

“You heard me just fine, you stubborn boy,” Aquila said, his tone impatient. “You’re clearly miserable without him. What good are you doing anyone, rotting away here, slowly killing yourself with self-pity and cheap gin.” He picked up the bottle from the table next to Marcus and took a disdainful sniff before pouring himself a small glass and tossing it back in one gulp.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Marcus said, his tone sharp and brittle.

“The young always think they are first to experience life,” Aquila said with a dramatic sigh, but his voice and gaze had softened. For the first time Marcus had to consider his uncle as a man; one who had never married, had never had a family. What had he given up in his own life?

“What are you afraid of?” he asked frankly, startling Marcus from his thoughts. “Your father, God rest his soul, is dead. You don’t have to live for him anymore, boy, nor for those foolish notions of honor he drilled into your head. Whose sins are you trying to pay for by making yourself miserable? Who do you think to protect? Surely not me, I hope.” He chuckled, pouring himself a larger sip of gin.

Marcus knew it could never be so simple, but for the first time in years he tried to look at the world without thinking of honor. For years he had lived for the sole purpose of defending his father’s legacy, of restoring his family’s good name. Somewhere along the line it had become all that mattered. Could he really give that up? Could it be so easy?

And then he thought of Esca’s smiling face, lit by firelight, and he decided that it didn’t really matter. He had spent most of his life sacrificing himself for his family, but they were all long gone. Now he had to consider what he would give up for the chance at a new family. One not bound by blood or name or honor. _Bound by the heart._ It was an easy decision to make.

“I’ll have Stephanos put together a traveling bag for you,” Aquila said with a knowing smile, rising from his chair. “I believe the next train leaves at three o’clock,” he added as he sidled out the door.

\---  
And so Marcus traveled north. It was the only clue he had to go on, Luca’s words to which he had only half listened.

He took trains when he could catch them, rode by post when he could not, and when he was desperate, he accepted rides in the back of farmers’ carts, over rickety country roads. He traveled through the first few nights, before exhaustion overcame him and he was forced to take a room above the tavern in a small backwater town. The next day he was up with the sun and off again. His leg pained him, jarred by the constant bumps and jolts, but it hurt far less than his heart, and so he ignored it the best he could.

In each town he would inquire for any word of the traveling gypsies, grasping onto even the barest rumor. Apparently they were not settling down in one place for long, as they had in London. He caught traces of them here or there, one man who had heard of a fair in a nearby town, another who had seen a lone peddler passing through days ago.

“Ah, looking for the gypsy folk, eh?” one man had asked, northern accent thick and rumbling. “Steal something from you, did they?” And Marcus was almost tempted to say yes.

None of it offered much hope, but Marcus refused to give up. He had traveled across continents for far less noble causes.

When Marcus finally did stumble across the caravan, it took him completely by surprise.

The last train of the evening had left him stranded at a small station surrounded by pasture lands. There was no inn or tavern in sight, but a passing farmer had offered to take him up the road towards the next closest town.

Marcus sat in the back of the wagon, letting his legs dangle over the edge like a small boy. In the growing dusk he took in the beauty of the countryside, with its open fields and small huddled woods. It was no wonder Esca had felt cooped up in the narrow labyrinths of London.  
As they passed a copse of trees a strain of soft violin music drifted to Marcus’s ears, achingly familiar in its sorrowful beauty. Marcus immediately leapt down off the wagon, his eyes searching the landscape frantically for the source of the sound.

The farmer looked back, but Marcus waved him on, and the man simply shrugged and continued on his way.

The music came to him again, and Marcus followed it, his heart clenching painfully with each note. As he drew closer to the tree line he could make out the outlines of figures moving in the shadowy lights, and the distinctive shape of their covered wagons, parked in a haphazard circle around a glowing fire. Marcus’s heart was near to bursting in relief when a lone figure emerged from the shadows as if bidden by his silent thoughts.

“Marcus!” Cottia exclaimed, her voice a shocked whisper. She reached out to touch his cheek, as if fearing he were a specter come to haunt her in the daylight. When she found him to be corporeal she threw her arms around him in fervent welcome. It felt wonderful, like coming home, and Marcus was so tempted to cry into her shoulder like a child and tell her all his worries.

“What are you doing here?” she asked him, pulling away to study his face with concern. Then her look turned sharp, desperate. “Has something happened to Esca?”

And Marcus’s heart almost stopped. What did she mean? Was something wrong with Esca? Was he missing, hurt, in trouble? Oh God, if anything had happened he would never…

“Marcus,” she said gently, reading his panic. “You do not know then?” Her look was soft, but it did nothing to quell Marcus’s racing heart.

“Where is he?” Marcus asked, hating the tremble in his voice. But he had little to hide from her, anyway. She had seen his future, after all, knew his secrets without him having to tell her.

“Silly boys, the two of you. I told you, you would face great trials if you did not listen to your heart. Ay me,” she said, patting his arm in a soothing gesture. “Here you are, traveling north, looking for Esca, while Esca travels south, looking for you. Was there ever such a foolish pair?”

Her words sunk in slowly. South. Esca was alright. Not injured, or hurt, or dying. He had gone south.

Looking for Marcus.

Marcus wasn’t sure whether he should laugh or cry. In the end, relief won out over his exhaustion and frustration. Esca had gone to look for him. That could not be a bad sign. He couldn’t contain a whoop of crazed relief and happiness, and laughed as he had not done since he was a child. Cottia looked at him as if he had lost his wits, but then she smiled with understanding.

“Fools, the both of you,” she said, shaking her head and smiling to herself. “Dadro,” she called out over the camp, where the others were too busy setting up for the night to notice their unexpected visitor. “Come, see who I have found wandering the roads!”

Luca welcomed Marcus with the same joy and the same concern, until Cottia explained all to him. Luca also laughed at Marcus’s foolishness, and Marcus supposed he deserved it.

They invited him to stay the night in their camp, and though Marcus was eager to get back, the dark was already closing in, and there would be no more trains until the morning. He was so eager to be on his way, now that he knew where to look. But relief had turned to exhaustion as the nervous energy keeping him going slowly drained.

He spent the evening around the fire in the middle of camp, as everyone told him stories about Esca. Marcus heard about Esca’s first adventures in pickpocketing, how he had been caught by an old granny and spanked to within an inch of his life. The others laughed as they told it, and so Marcus guessed it had been greatly exaggerated over the years. He heard about Esca’s first attempts with the knives, how many times he had failed and cut himself or nearly struck a horse, but his determination kept him going until he had mastered it. The story made Marcus smile; that was the Esca he knew.

They spoke late into the night, passing around bottles of strong bitter wine, occasionally pausing for a song. It felt like some kind of ritual, an initiation. And for the first time, Marcus truly felt as if he were a member of a family.

He fell asleep at some point, in the soft grass beside the fire, and someone threw a blanket over him. He woke with the first rays of dawn shining through the thinning fall leaves. For the first time since Esca had left, Marcus felt strong and ready to face the day.

He said his farewells, hugging each person in the way that had become so comfortable and familiar now. Cottia held him back a moment, pressing a small pouch into his hands. Marcus looked down at it curiously, opening the drawstring and emptying the contents into his palm. Marcus recognized the small black seeds, those of the wild, golden flowers his mother had always planted when he was a boy. He looked at her in confusion.

“Plant these someplace sunny,” she said, closing his fingers around them. “They are Esca’s favorite.” And that, Marcus thought, seemed very fitting. He kissed her on the cheek and tucked the seeds safely back into their pouch.

“A wedding gift!” she shouted as she walked away to join the others, and everyone hooted in amusement and congratulations, shouting choruses of “Baksheesh!” as they retreated. Marcus didn’t fight the warm blush that came to his cheeks. He could only hope she was right.

He didn’t feel any sadness this time, as he watched their colorful wagons rumble down the road away from him. He knew he would be seeing them again, and that he would be welcomed back as family when he did.

Marcus’s nerves returned, however, as he sat aboard the first morning train bound southward. Cottia had said Esca went south searching for Marcus. But what if it wasn’t for the same reason Marcus sought him out? What if their feelings and intentions were not one and the same? His family seemed so sure that they knew Esca’s heart, but Marcus was hesitant to believe until he had heard it with his own ears. The train did not move nearly fast enough, and he was ready to crawl out of his own skin with the waiting.

The journey back took only two days, now that he knew exactly where he was going. They were the longest days of his life, but slowly he inched his way closer towards home, his true home.

Finally he could see the outline of London ahead. His heart beat so hard it threatened to burst straight through his ribs as he hailed a cab at the station and gave the driver his uncle’s address. Esca was somewhere in this city. He would stop home, leave his things, and then set out to search all the places that Esca might possibly go.

He burst through the front door at a loping run, ready to rush right back out, when Stephanos stopped him. “Young master,” he greeted, poorly concealing his shock at Marcus’s frazzled appearance. “Mr. Aquila and your guest are awaiting you in the drawing room.”

Marcus tried to wave him away. He had no time for any of his uncle’s boring old friends right now. The man would understand. But Stephanos stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm. “I was instructed to send you in as soon as you returned. I understand it is rather important.”

Marcus wanted to scream at the butler that he didn’t understand the meaning of the word important, but Stephanos was pushing and prodding him in such an uncharacteristically unceremonious manner that Marcus was too shocked to resist.

He pulled the drawing room door open impatiently, ready to make his excuses as quickly as possible. “Uncle, I’m sorry but I must--”

“Ah, Marcus, you’re finally home,” Aquila said, cutting him off with a cheery smile. He spoke as if Marcus had simply stepped out to run an errand, rather than traveling across the country on a desperate and fruitless chase. “I’ve just been having a most delightful chat with Esca, here.”

And there, in his uncle’s drawing room, lounging on his French silk settee, was the maddening, infuriating man for whom Marcus had just spent days scouring all of Britain. He looked completely unrepentant at Marcus’s harried shock. In fact, he seemed rather pleased with himself, as he sipped his tea calmly and Marcus continued to gape.

As Marcus’s silence stretched Esca’s expression morphed into a mixture of uncertainty and hope and boldness that made Marcus wonder just how much of his recent behavior Aquila had revealed. Esca looked both out of place and oddly at home, there in Aquila’s parlor, in his horribly mismatched clothing, sipping tea from the family heirloom china. Seeing him there broke something open inside Marcus’s chest. He would make his home wherever Esca was, whether that meant traveling with the gypsies, or staying here with his uncle, though that might be a bit awkward, perhaps maybe they could--

“Have a seat, Marcus, don’t just stand there gawping,” Aquila broke into his feverish thoughts, nodding his dismissal to Stephanos, who stood hovering in the doorway. Marcus wasn’t sure where he should sit; he wanted so badly to be close to Esca, to once again take in his scent and the heat of his proximity, but it wouldn’t be proper in front of his uncle. Aquila just clucked and shook his head as Marcus settled down in a chair facing them both.

“I’ve been telling Esca--” Aquila began, and Marcus nearly panicked at all the embarrassing possibilities. “—about the family land you inherited from your mother, in Somerset. Lovely farming land, that.”

Marcus could only blink at him in incomprehension. Of all the things he had expected his uncle to say, this had not even crossed his mind.

“The farm? But the farm is--” Sold, me meant to say, but Aquila cut him off.

“--A bit rundown, yes, you’re right, but hopefully not in too rough shape. I should think it will take at least two people to fix her up and get the land in working order again,” Aquila continued smoothly, ignoring Marcus’s confusion. “It turns out I had mislaid that bit of paperwork we discussed before,” he leaned forward and muttered in a mock whisper. “I suppose the mind becomes forgetful with age, but I thought you might find it in your heart to forgive me this one time.” He gave Marcus a sly smile, and in that moment Marcus had the crazy thought that his uncle had in some way planned all of this.

Esca looked between them with sharp eyes, trying to determine what was really being said. A frown creased his dear brow as he looked to Marcus, and Marcus could hold back his happiness no longer. He broke into a jubilant grin, which Esca mirrored back, the tension finally draining from his shoulders as hope and happiness seemed to win the war for his feelings.

But something nagged at the back of Marcus’s mind, an old fear that had held him back before, that could still snatch his happiness away now.

“If I’m going to re-open the farm, I will need help” he said, tone serious, looking deep into Esca’s eyes. “Esca, do you…” Marcus paused, steeling himself for a question that could change the course of his happiness. The apprehension returned to Esca’s eyes as he waited. Marcus didn’t want to ruin this, but he had to be sure. “Do you think you could be happy, staying in one place?”

And Esca’s uncertainty melted away like ice in the summer sun. “With you, yes,” he said simply, his tone full of warmth and surety. It was all the assurance Marcus needed.

“Well,” Aquila cleared his throat, breaking the intensity of the moment as he shuffled to his feet. Marcus felt himself blush under his uncle’s amused gaze. “I think I’ll go compose a letter to my man of business, make sure all the paperwork is in proper order. I’ll see the two of you at supper.”

He shuffled from the room, tossing a wink at Marcus over his shoulder as he shut the door behind him.

Marcus wasn’t sure what to say, where to even begin to explain everything he feared and hoped and longed for, all that he had felt over the last few days. But Esca rose from his chair and came to hover over Marcus, leaning in until their faces were mere inches apart. Marcus could make out all the summer freckles beginning to fade across his nose, and the golden flecks in his eyes that he had thought never to see again.

“Are you sure?” Esca asked, voice barely a whisper.

“Yes,” Marcus replied, answering every unspoken question Esca could have possibly been implying. He was sure, more sure than he had ever been in his life. This is what he wanted, who he wanted to be. For the very first time, he felt at peace.

“Thank god,” Esca murmured fervently, before swooping in and closing the final distance between them and capturing Marcus’s mouth in a searing kiss.

And in that moment, Marcus knew he was home.

\---

“Esca!” Marcus called, walking out the back door of the cottage, headed towards the small fenced-in yard where the chickens and geese were housed.

The intervening months had changed Marcus greatly. In place of his stiff suits he now wore the stained, worn-in clothing of a farmer, patched in places with bits of the brightly colored fabrics that still seemed to find their way into all of Esca’s wardrobe, and now Marcus’s as well. His skin was tanned from long days spent in the sun, a healthy glow that made him look younger than he had felt in years. The work had been good for his leg, as well, his limp far less pronounced.

Esca looked up from where he had been collecting the day’s eggs in a basket, setting it carefully out of reach of the madly clucking hens. He wiped his hands on his trousers and turned to Marcus with an expectant look.

“Breakfast is ready,” Marcus announced, and then waited as Esca collected up his things. He felt a stirring of overwhelming fondness as he watched Esca speak softly to the birds, his hands always gentle as he soothed them back to quiet contentment. It was yet another skill that Marcus had been surprised and delighted to discover in the former-thief.

Esca came to join Marcus at the gate and they walked back towards the house together. It was small and weathered and the roof still leaked a bit in places, but Esca treated it as if it were their castle. At first Marcus had worried that he would grow restless, staying in one place, but for now, at least, he seemed content.

Marcus couldn’t resist dropping a quick kiss to Esca’s brow as he pulled him against his side. There was no one to see, out here in the country, no reason to hold back. It always made Esca smile, and that was reason enough.

Esca held the egg basket in one hand and wound his other arm around Marcus’s waist. As they walked, he slipped his hand down over Marcus’s hip to rest his fingers in his trouser pocket, a proprietary grasp that Marcus found he enjoyed very much.

The motion brought back memories that made Marcus snort in laughter. When Esca looked up at him in confusion, Marcus dropped a kiss on his lips and smiled.

“Trying to steal my wallet again, little thief?” he teased, making Esca wrinkle his nose at the strange endearment. “Don’t you know that everything I have is already yours?” And if it came out more serious than Marcus had intended, he let it be. It was the truth, anyway.

“Yes,” Esca replied simply, pulling himself closer into Marcus’s side. “I know.”

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> ****
> 
> Glossary:  
> Dadro= father  
> Dai= mother  
> Fei= sister  
> Monisha= wife  
> Bor= friend  
> Gaje= outsider/ non-Roma  
> Baksheesh= good luck/good fortune


End file.
